


A Passion for Jasper

by wordybirdy



Series: Trifle Bubbles - One-Shots & Multi-Chaptered [8]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Falling In Love, Humor, M/M, Mystery, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 16:38:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1517651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The spring of 1885 throws up Mr. Jack Talmadge, eccentric bachelor, and deposits him at 221B Baker Street.  A peculiar mystery ensues, comprising portent and murder and an ancient stone skull.  Somewhere in the thick of this, Sherlock Holmes falls in love for the very first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Extraordinary Season

I still recall the spring of 1885 as being an extraordinary season. Indeed, the year in its entirety shall remain within my memory as holding much of great exception. Unbeknownst to me, and quite beside it proudly hosting the strange tale that I shall now attempt to relate, 1885 was a year of catalyst – when my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes, realised himself in what he might have called a “false position”: the great quandary of falling in love for the first time.

But I have leapt ahead, of course – as always. Allow me to begin by taking you back to that nascent spring, where the sun's shy warmth was set to vanquish the last grey drab of our wet winter. A Wednesday morning – in which we found ourselves both sat before our fireplace all the same, for it was early yet, and the night before had thrown us a sharp chill.

“Brr,” said my friend, rubbing his hands in a pique. “I should have thought we had seen the last of this, Watson.”

I glanced over at his handsome head, bent over as he scrabbled on the rug for his tobacco pouch. He straightened up and caught my eye. “The Persian slipper is empty,” said he with a frown. “Ergo, I forage.”

“That does not surprise me,” I replied with a smile. “You smoked up a pea-souper last evening.”

“Well, that is what I do.” Holmes settled back into his chair and thrust two fingers and a thumb into the shag tobacco pouch. A hearty pinch filled up his pipe, and now I watched him as he struck a match and took his first draw of the day. He sighed in satisfaction, and burrowed down in the brocade and closed his eyes. 

Holmes was all of thirty-one years old, back then. Somewhat over six feet in height and unnaturally lean, he paid little heed to the encouragement from myself and Mrs. Hudson that he should eat more than a few mouthfuls of any meal. His diet was of the sparest, and if only I could say likewise of his other, less favourable habits. The tobacco I could tolerate – for I was little better – but my friend inclined towards the use of some random foul narcotic when he found himself with time to spare and a black mood closing in. I gazed at him now for any sign that he might again be so indulging – for his casework these past weeks had been a measure less than fruitful.

(I took any small opportunity to scrutinise him, I confess.)

“How do you plan to spend today?” I asked.

I heard him sigh. 

“I suppose that I could drop by Scotland Yard,” said he. “Lestrade _might_ have something for me to set my teeth around.”

An alarming image that threw my mind into the gutter. I heaved it out again.

“That is good,” I replied. “Would you care for some company?”

Holmes smiled; the briefest flicker.

“If you have nothing better to do,” he said, “I should be glad if you would join me. The exercise would do you good. You have gained three pounds since Friday.”

“But – however could you know that? _Two_ pounds, as a matter of fact. Mrs. Hudson does make such excellent puddings. Not that my weight is any of your business.”

My friend chuckled.

“Nor is mine any of yours,” said he. “Oh, Watson, I am only teasing. Although still, all the same – _two pounds_.” He tutted.

“Be quiet,” I told him. “I am going to have my breakfast now.” For our landlady had just swept in with a broad, full tray of covered dishes. The irresistible aroma of bacon, toast and scrambled eggs assailed my nostrils. “You should as well, Holmes. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, you're very kind.”

Holmes made no move towards the table, nor any further comment even; remaining curled upon his chair and sending intermittent puffs of thin grey smoke into the air.

By this time, we had been sharing rooms at Baker Street for a little more than four years. From its hesitant beginnings of shy confusion and occasional frustrations, our friendship blossomed and so prospered into something almost intimate.

Almost.

The canyon between the almost and the actual is vast. My heart yearned, daily, foolishly, and he all the time oblivious – for what use had he for tenderness, or – god forbid it – love?

_“Love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things...”_

I remember, still, the way in which Holmes had said those words, upon some case or the other, and how my heart sank deep into my boots at hearing them.

 _Almost_ , then, and that would have to be enough.

“Holmes,” I said, “you really must eat something. The stem of your pipe does not count, my dear fellow.”

He joined me, almost sulking, picked up a slice of toast and smeared across it with the faintest trace of butter. I poured us each a cup of coffee, and we sat there by the window looking out into the morning hum.

“I am writing a monograph,” said he, “upon the art of tracing footsteps.” He peered down into the street. “It is about the only time when muddy weather is of much use. In all other situations it is a curse and a nuisance.”

“For Mrs. Hudson, at any rate,” I replied, “when we tramp it in upon her hearth rug.”

We were quiet for some moments, each sipping coffee, lost in thought. Then:

“How is that wound of yours healing, Holmes? The stitches are due to come out.”

(The previous week, when in pursuit of a low ruffian close by the Thames, my friend had gashed his leg upon a razor-shard of metal halfway protruding from a dockside wall. Upon reaching home at last (the criminal safely apprehended) and with my having cleaned the wound, I found it needing ten neat stitches, which I performed while he complained at volume and hissed between his teeth.)

“No need to bother, Watson. I am quite capable of removing my own stitches.”

I shook my head.

“I am sorry, old man, but I cannot allow it. No, don't glare at me like that. I shall do it.”

“Oh, later,” said he, with a flap of his hand, springing up from his chair. “You are always wanting to do things at the most inopportune of moments. I have to go out now to pester Lestrade.”

He was no longer limping at least. I made a mental note to set aside some minutes in the evening. My friend was already in front of his bedroom mirror, smoothing back his thick mop of black hair and reaching out for his coat. He bounded back through the doorway to scoop up his hat.

“Watson, hurry up, we have to leave.”

I looked down sadly at my breakfast, half uneaten. I might have argued, but I did not. Within two minutes we were both upon the stair and heading out, our hats clamped down upon our heads to protect us from the damping mist.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The little rat-faced Inspector was already at his desk, surrounded by papers when we rapped upon his door. He craned his neck over his lamp to assess the intruders on the threshold.

“Mr. Holmes! Dr. Watson,” said he, sounding surprised. “It is only two days since we last saw one another. Do you bring any news?”

My friend threw himself on the hard-backed chair opposite.

“I was rather hoping that you might be keeping some of your own, Lestrade,” he said. “A case that has you baffled, perhaps? That would, of course, be most everything.”

The Inspector rolled his eyes, drummed his fat fingers upon a corner of the desk.

“Most amusing, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “With an attitude like that, you should be grateful you get anything at all from us.” The Inspector motioned at his paper pile. “There is plenty, as you can see, but it is nothing we can't handle.”

“Are you quite sure of that?”

“I am very sure, Mr. Holmes.”

“That is tiresome.”

“I imagine so.”

Lestrade's small office, in point of fact, was in a perpetual state of chaos. His surfaces were never anything less than a whirling bedlam. The floor was worse. Files and teetering stacks of books surrounded us in dire threat. The feeling was claustrophobic to the point where I sidled softly to the door and thrust my head out to the corridor, to inhale a breath of space.

A small misfortune, then, to have it almost knocked from off my shoulders by a charging bull with flaxen hair. Inspector Gregson – for it was he – spun on his axis and held out both his hands to steady me.

“I say there, I do apologise,” said he, “I was hardly paying any mind, and then there you were, and – oh! Why, it is Dr. Watson. Good morning to you. How are you keeping?”

I freely confess to liking Tobias Gregson considerably more than his colleague, Lestrade. An altogether more affable variety of the Scotland Yarder breed, the burly fellow held out his hand to shake my own, and listened intently as I told him of my trifles.

“You could do a lot better than running around in circles at Mr. Holmes's heels,” said he. “It makes you look like a stray pup following a lamp post, ha ha! Does he have any work on at present? No? Well, shame. No doubt our Inspector Lestrade will put him straight.”

“I regret that he might not,” I replied. “It appears there is nothing suitable at present.”

“Shame, shame,” Gregson repeated, his mouth a moue. “Still, you could try again tomorrow. That is the way with crime, you know. It is always unexpected. And we're always glad to see you.”

I would have replied to the last, except at that moment Sherlock Holmes erupted from the office and grasped me firmly by the shoulder.

“Damn Lestrade, and damn it all,” said he, rather more loudly than might be discreet. “How can he say there are no cases on, when his wretched office is a paper mill? Ugh. _Gregson_. Well, goodbye then. Come on, Watson.”

My friend wrenched me away down the hall. I knew better than to scold him for his rudeness, for it would do little next to no good.

“That was intolerably rude,” I informed him.

“I don't care,” said he, still pulling on my jacket as we lurched towards the exit. “Gregson is an imbecile. Lestrade is a farcical bungler. We should go home.”

“You argued with Lestrade?”

“Yes. He is in a filthy temper now. I left before he could throw his lamp at my head. I pity the next fellow who walks in through his door.”

The sun was poking through the clouds as we spilled out onto the street. We strolled a little distance, arm in arm, and it seemed that gradually my friend recovered his good humour. I had feared his altercation might have set him in the dumps, for it seemed somewhat unlikely that Lestrade should now see fit to bestow us with anything of interest for the next month. Yet our conversation soon turned towards the theatre, and with plans to dine at Simpson's, and soon we were both smiling with little thought to spare for taciturn Inspectors with their paper piles and chaos.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The afternoon saw us adjacent on the sofa, with our reading and thinking interspersed with light chatter. At length, Holmes rose to gather up his papers and recommence work on his monograph. Stooping, graceful, his back towards me as he sorted through the sheaf upon the floor, I could scarcely focus, lost in a sharp pang of low want for him. I was on the point of thinking how I should like to set my teeth into his rump, when he straightened up and turned to look at me.

“What was that?” said he.

I started, shocked, in some blind panic that I had said something aloud he might have heard.

“What was what, Holmes?”

“The front door,” he said, impatient now. “I could swear I heard the bell ring.”

I glanced across to the clock ticking on the mantel.

“It is a little late for clients?” I suggested.

We strained our ears to listen. Indeed it appeared to have been the bell, for there came the familiar boot click of our landlady as she hastened down the hall. Voices, then – a gentleman's – and at last, two sets of feet upon the stairs. Holmes's face was bright, alert with anticipation. He stood, hands on his hips, in the direct centre of the room, his grey eyes fixed upon the closed door of our sitting-room.

It was not Mrs. Hudson who made the first rap. In fact, there were no raps at all. The first we came to know of it was the sudden, looming appearance of a broad-shouldered fellow, late middle-aged, with right hand on the door knob and the left clutched to his pate, as he stared around with wild eyes at the two of us. His pepper-salted hair was distressed in a mad fury; his dark brown suit was several sizes too small and his boots were too large. The round-rimmed spectacles he had clamped upon his face were crooked at a sharp angle.

Behind him we saw our landlady, her mouth open in surprise, waving apologies for the intrusion.

“Mr. Holmes!” exclaimed our visitor, staggering three steps into the room. “My name is Jack Talmadge! I am a persecuted soul!”

Whereupon his stout legs buckled and he tumbled to our carpet.


	2. Dreams

Our new friend gazed at us, blinking, from his knees.

“I--” he began. He shuffled forwards, still wide-eyed and knee-bound, towards Sherlock Holmes, as if Holmes were some form of deity. “I-- !”

“Mr. Talmadge,” said Holmes, stepping forward and extending his hand. I leapt to assist. Together, we managed to rescue the gentleman and set him down safe on a chair. I hastened for brandy, and poured out a finger which our guest accepted gladly.

“Thank you,” he said, his lips fast to the tumbler. “Thank you, upon my word.”

“Are you quite all right now, sir?” asked Holmes. “Is there anything else we can do?”

Mr. Talmadge shook his head.

“Thank you, no, I am all right,” said he. “I just had a dizzy spell, and – _whoops!_ – I was on speaking terms with your carpet. I am truly very sorry.”

The voice that emanated was thin and sibilant; I would not have matched it with his build nor to his years. His manner was benevolent, if somewhat scattered and distracted. I found him the most curious of specimens.

Having reassured our landlady that we needed nothing further, I closed the door and took my notebook, sitting ready to make record of what our mysterious guest might have to say. Holmes leaned forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees, his fingers steepled.

“You have something you would wish to share with us, Mr. Talmadge,” he said.

The gentleman nodded. He paused to brush his fingers down his trouser legs, as if in some plaintive, ineffectual attempt to further extend their length; for with the way that he was sitting, they curtailed quite abruptly at his shins. His boot laces were tied in the most elaborate of fashions, with the tips of them low-dangling by his heels, and I wondered if they might have been the reason for his stumble. I watched in fascination as our client straightened his spectacles, then changed his mind, removing them to polish with his tie. He scrubbed each lens in turn with quite some vigour, before resettling the pair with a fine flourish on his nose.

“That is better,” said Mr. Talmadge. “Now I can see.” He spent a further moment wrestling self-consciously with his trousers, twisting this way and that as if he wished us not to set sight on his socks.

“I am a persecuted man, Mr. Holmes,” said the fellow at last, and again, with finality. He settled on his seat, but then removed a silver snuff box from an inside jacket pocket and inhaled a tickling pinch.

“ _Mr. Talmadge_ ,” said my friend. “If you _please_.”

“Oh! Yes. The snuff helps me to think, you know. To remember. And I need to remember. Although I would far rather prefer not. I have been having terrible dreams, Mr. Holmes.”

“Dreams?”

“Yes. Awful, terrible things. Messages in my dreams. Messages! That something awful and very terrible is going to happen to me, Mr. Holmes! And there was another one today, in my afternoon nap! You have to help me. I am out of my mind.”

“Mr. Talmadge, I am a detective, not a therapist,” Holmes said severely. “Has a crime been committed? Is there someone who threatens you?”

Our visitor scratched his head. 

“No, it has not. And no, there is not. I have no enemies. But the dreams are so real. I can only blame them on the skull.”

My friend raised his eyebrows. “The skull?”

“Yes, the skull. It is a life-sized carved red jasper. My dear father passed away some months ago, and left it to me in his will. He was eighty years old, Mr. Holmes. That is a ripe age, is it not? He had developed a sneeze, which turned into a cough, and before anyone knew it, he had-- well, now, you are surely not interested in hearing about that. The fact is, I came into possession of the skull, and I believe it is doing its absolute best to tell me something.”

All this while I had been taking notes and quelling my urge to chuckle, for this fellow was surely a madman on the run from the asylum. I looked to my friend to observe his reaction. To his credit, Holmes did appear to be listening politely.

“And how did your father happen to come by this skull?” Holmes enquired. “Had it been in his possession for very long?”

“Oh, yes, it had indeed. My father was an archaeologist, you know. He found it on a dig in Guatemala when he was little more than thirty. He always seemed very fond of it. It remained in his possession for all that time, and now it sits upon my bedroom shelf and stares at me, and I don't know what to do.”

I was enjoying this conversation very much. 

“Mr. Talmadge,” said Sherlock Holmes, a light strain in his voice, “please tell me, had your father ever suffered an experience similar to the one you are currently having?”

Mr. Talmadge frowned and thought. 

“No, sir, he had not.”

“May I ask as to why you display the skull upon a shelf inside your bedroom, if its presence disturbs you to such a degree?”

“It is a valuable antique, Mr. Holmes. I want it near me, you understand, so that if my house is burglarised at night, well, it won't be so likely to be taken. I am a bachelor and I live alone, save for my old housekeeper who keeps a back room. I do have a safe-box, but it is small and it is full of my papers and deeds, and Bugalugs simply wouldn't fit.”

“I beg your pardon... Bugalugs?”

“Yes. Bugalugs is the name of the skull, sir. That is the name my father gave it. I can hardly be held responsible for-- Mr. Holmes! You are _laughing_ , and you are making fun of me.”

Mr. Talmadge slapped his great hand upon his knee in indignation, but my friend had burst into a loud guffaw that urged me to join him, and alas, we could not stop. Our visitor glowered his disapproval until the second we were silent.

“Mr. Holmes,” said he, “you and your friend are unprofessional.”

Holmes held up his hand. “It was not my intent to offend. I do apologise, Mr. Talmadge, but I hardly think that I can help you. Do you really wish for me to interrogate a skull? I can only advise you to relocate the object in question, or to sell it, and see then if the dreams might cease. If there is nothing tangible I can work with...”

The gentleman rose to his feet, his nose pitched in the air.

“I can do precisely neither of those things,” said he. “The skull is all that I have left to remind me of my poor father. It is not the skull that is the problem. It is the dooming messages in my dreams. Well, I can see that I have wasted your valuable time. I shall waste it no longer. Good evening to you, Mr. Holmes.”

And our visitor turned and stomped towards the door, then down the landing and from the stairs to the front door, which rattled and banged in his colic wake.

“Holmes,” I said, guilty now, “I do not think we handled that at all well. The fellow does seem to believe in the crystal skull legend. I have read a little of it myself, and I would say that--”

“Pshaw,” said my friend, “I have little patience for the ethereal, with which our man was full to bursting. Did you take notice of his face? Yes? It appeared to be under such vascular effects as might embarrass the heavy drinker, did it not? And then there was the mention of his memory loss, and his lack of co-ordination. I am surprised that you could not deduce that for yourself. And then you plied him with brandy, tut tut, my dear fellow.”

“So the man is either a sot or a lunatic,” I said. “And he believes in his dreams. That is a great shame, Holmes; I was so hoping for an interesting case.”

“It was an interesting ten minutes, at least,” replied Holmes. “Now, whatever was I doing before all of that? Watson?”

“You were about to ask to have your stitches removed,” I told him – for otherwise, if not now, it would never be done. 

He screwed up his face. I reached out for my medical bag.

“Into your room with you,” I said.

Holmes's bedroom was a barren land, with the minimum of furniture and precious little in the way of a homely touch. The room was chill; the fire unlit. He sat upon the narrow bed and eyed me with suspicion.

“I can do it myself, Watson,” he said.

“And aggravate the wound into bleeding again, very likely,” I said. “No.” I removed my scissors and my tweezers from the bag. “Holmes, if you could just...?”

Scowling, he lay back and unbuttoned, drawing down a few inches of cloth.

How extremely difficult to keep one's mind upon the task.

The wound was on the outer thigh, and healing nicely. I set to work. Holmes's skin was cool and goosebumped. He was quiet now, his attention fixed to a vague spot on the wall.

How many similar wounds had I attended to, these past four years? Stitches sewn and cuts wiped clean and neatly bandaged. My friend held scant regard for his own safety or wellbeing, and this gave me cause to fret rather more often than I liked.

And now, my hands upon him, easing the stitches from his flesh. His breath was rapid now. I was surprised he had not voiced a loud complaint about the sting. 

I kept my eyes averted from the front of him, the back of him; anywhere that was not comprised of a thin wound line, fresh attended.

“There,” I said softly, drawing back from utopia, “it is done.”

“Done?”

“Quite done.”

“Thank you.”

“You are very welcome.” I snapped shut my bag and stood up. “Holmes, if you are still agreeable – let us dine out tonight and take in that new play at the Griswald. My treat.”

“All right,” said he, springing up from the bed and readjusting himself. “If we are to do that, then we had best make haste. Shoo, Watson, shoo. You are in the way.”

Chuckling, I left him to his rattling of the wardrobe, and so retired to my own room to wash and dress.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Our evening was delightful. The meal at Simpson's was delicious: fried scallops, and a light grilled Dover Sole for our main course, with something rather piquant in white wine. The “drama” at the Griswald was one by a leading playwright, and well acted; so it was that we arrived home by eleven, entertained and fully sated.

We sat by the hearth with cigars and a small tot of port.

His cheeks light-flushed from the fine wine and the stroll home, and now the fireside, with his collar pulled awry, and his legs crossed just quite so... I could have eaten him and still had room beside. 

Repressed desire and alcohol is scarce a merry mix. 

And he, while sitting there with his great smoke, and chattering of violins and their position in the orchestra (of which I had not the faintest interest, but listened rapt regardless), could not have dreamed of the huge roil within his friend sat closely opposite. 

My army days had better luck, but we had best not speak of that.

“Goodnight, Holmes,” I said at last, stubbing my cigar and rising up.

“You are going to bed?” he enquired.

“Yes. I am tired. I shall see you at breakfast?”

“Yes, you shall.”

And I went to bed and took myself in hand, and that was some relief at least.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The morning was sun-filled, warm and bright. I entered the sitting-room to find Holmes standing at the bookcase, flipping through a large black tome. He snapped it shut as I approached.

“Research never ends,” he said. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Holmes.” He had replaced the book upon the shelf. As I passed, I could not help but cast a quick glance at the spine to see what field of research my friend was working on. _Dissecting Mental Health: the Taboo and the Less Spoken, by Dr. Algernon Flyte._

“You are thinking of accepting Talmadge's case after all?” I asked in surprise.

Holmes gave me a sharp look. 

“Never mind that,” he retorted brusquely. “It does not matter. What matters is that you are late, and the coffee pot is cold.”

We breakfasted in silence, perhaps each thinking of the day ahead and how we best might fill it. A long walk to shake the cobwebs, or a visit to the bookshop might be in order. Mrs. Hudson brought up the papers and set to clear away the dishes, and my friend picked up the morning's _Times_ to scan the headline columns. I was looking around our sitting-room and thinking that perhaps a fresh lick of paint might do it good, even a new rug upon the floor to replace the threadbare old, when I heard a sharp intake of breath and a soft curse of exclamation.

“Holmes,” I said, “what is it? Don't tell me that the Prime Minister has caused another scandal in the parliamentary debates?”

“No,” said he, “it is more than that, and something unexpected. Watson, you asked me a moment ago if I had reconsidered Talmadge's problem.”

“I did indeed,” I replied. “Will you help him?”

“I rather think it is too late for that,” replied Holmes. “The fellow was found dead last night. He was murdered.”


	3. The Mystery Unfolds

“Murdered! But how? What happened?”

Holmes tapped at the newspaper before him. “This report has little detail. It is all frantic hyperbole. But Talmadge was stabbed to death. The housekeeper found him, and according to the _Times_ is in a current state of hysteria. Hum. They give the address of the property as 9 Peregrine Way. Well, this is far more in my line. I fancy that we pay the house a visit, Watson, what do you say?”

I frowned at my friend's unfeeling state.

“I say that perhaps you should be showing a fraction of remorse.”

“Oh, for goodness sake, why? For refusing his case? How would it make any difference? I am certainly sorry that he is dead, but there is nothing that can be done to bring him back. We should focus our attention on the case. I fear that Lestrade will be tramping all over and destroying the evidence if he can possibly do so. I suggest we leave now.”

The cab ride was swift, taking just fifteen minutes. Peregrine Way is a three-storied terrace row of modern red-brick and wrought iron. Neither overly well-to-do nor in the less thought-of locales, it maintains a pleasant aspect. A gaggle of curious souls from the street had collected outside number nine. All talking in unison, and no doubt distracting the constable at sentry by the black-painted door. The curtains on the ground floor were still drawn; the first floor likewise. The top level of the house had all drapes parted, one window raised.

“Good morning, constable,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Might I ask who is on duty?”

“Why, it's Mr. Holmes!” exclaimed the police constable. “I might have guessed that you would show up. Inspector Lestrade is in the study, I believe. On the second floor. Is he expecting you?”

“Yes,” said Holmes. “We shall step right on through then.”

The hallway was cool, with little natural light.

“Holmes,” I hissed, “I don't think that Lestrade will like it one small bit if we barge in.”

“It is too late now. Besides, he is probably already quite out of his depth and positively _wishing_ that I would show up. I am sparing him the agony of having to send for me.”

All of the ground floor rooms were locked. We ascended to the first floor and found it likewise. Holmes muttered his frustration as we progressed to the final landing. One door was open, the sunlight spilling out onto the polished floor. Inside, we could hear a soft foot-tread and a series of dull thumps.

“Destroying the evidence,” my friend repeated, a glum expression on his face.

We hovered in the doorway and peered into the panelled study. Lestrade was kneeling by the desk, picking up a dislodged pile of books. Holmes cleared his throat. The Inspector started, ungainly spinning towards the sound.

“Oh, for god's sake,” the little man complained, “whatever are you doing here?”

“Offering our assistance, in the event it is needed,” replied Holmes. “Really, Lestrade, you shouldn't scowl. If the wind changes, you'll be stuck like that. Now, then. The body was discovered in this room, I think that's correct?”

The Inspector hauled himself up onto a low-backed wood chair and squinted up at my friend.

“Yes. What _do_ you know exactly, Mr. Holmes?”

My friend outlined the details of Jack Talmadge's visit to our quarters, and the report in the morning's paper, and now the Inspector nodded, mollified to some extent.

“I see,” he said. “Well, what you have told me is very interesting. I suppose that we might use some help. Three heads are better than one, after all. I shall tell you what happened. According to the housekeeper – who, by the way, has been in Mr. Talmadge's employ for twenty-five years – according to her, her master had been working in his study all the evening. At around nine o'clock, she heard him descend to the ground floor and open up the front door. Apparently, there was a visitor, although she did not hear the bell ring. Some minutes later, the study door on the top landing closed once more, and the housekeeper thought no more about it. At ten o'clock, the lady said she thought it strange that Talmadge had not rung down for his cocoa, and so she went up to investigate. The study door was locked, with a lamp light shining through underneath. She had a spare key, of course, and after tapping for a minute with no reply, she decided to let herself in. You can imagine what she found, Mr. Holmes: Talmadge's body on the floor here, with half a dozen knife wounds to his chest. The poor woman screamed and ran for help, and now here we are. But here is the strange thing, Mr. Holmes. The door was locked from the inside and this window wide open. The murderer must have used the window as his escape route. But have you seen the distance to the ground? The fellow must have been an acrobat!”

Holmes's brows were drawn in thought. “And did you find Talmadge's key?”

“Why yes, of course. It was tucked inside his waistcoat pocket. There was nothing else of interest on the body.”

“I see. Good. Thank you. Did you move any of the furniture? Were there signs of a struggle?”

“We haven't moved a thing, Mr. Holmes. Everything remains as it was. Well, apart from those damned books that I just knocked over, but my eyes can't be everywhere at once. The rug here is rather rucked, as you can see, but no, we found no traces of a fight or anything like that.”

“And the murder weapon?”

“The killer must have taken it with him. We found nothing here to match the wounds. The weapon used was a large one with a thin and broad blade.”

Holmes stooped beside the blood stains on the floor where the body had lain. He examined the marks intently and then rose and moved across to the sash window, whereupon he thrust his head out and slowly turned it in all directions. I joined him there, and peeped out below.

“By jove, what a drop,” I said, frowning. “It must have taken some nerve.”

“There is a drainpipe,” said my friend. He leaned out further. “It seems secure and has not been wrenched apart from its fixing.”

Holmes's next action terrified me. He cast a leg out of the window, one hand outstretching for the drainpipe, the other anchored on the sash. He was halfway out and rooting for a foothold in thin air when I lurched forward.

“What the devil are you doing! Holmes! My god!” 

I dragged him back inside, clinging on in a blind panic lest he break free and try again. My heart was beating wildly at his reckless, thoughtless madness.

“Watson,” said he, peeling my hands from their clench, “my dear fellow...Watson...?”

I drew back a fraction, red-faced.

“I would not care to see you with a broken neck upon the pavement...”

“I was not intending to _jump_... Watson, release me, I beg of you. I shall not attempt it again.”

Lestrade was feigning busywork at the far side of the room. I straightened out my jacket and I pulled the window shut.

“Why on earth didn't the killer exit out through the door?” I muttered, still embarrassed and half to myself. “What a dashed stupid thing.”

“Any small number of reasons,” replied Holmes. “I am going to look around now. Sit down and behave.”

He circled the small study, taking close note of the desk and drawers, the pictures on the walls, the bowing bookshelves. At length, he left the room and off into – I assumed – the main bedroom. Five minutes had elapsed before he returned.

“Where is the housekeeper?” he enquired.

“She is in the kitchen,” Lestrade replied. “I suppose you wish to speak with her? Follow me, then.”

The lady was introduced to us as Mrs. Matilda Barker. She was a slight-framed, timid woman of middle-age, and had been weeping, for her eyes were raw and red-rimmed. Her hands shook so around her teacup that she could barely take a sip. The poor lady set to wailing all the louder when she saw us.

“There, there now, don't get all upset,” said Lestrade. “These fine gentlemen wish only to talk. They are Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. They are helping Scotland Yard with this enquiry.”

Mrs. Barker wiped her eyes and shook her head.

“I have already said everything that I know,” she said, sniffing. “I am far too upset to be talking to anyone.”

“I quite understand,” said Holmes, sitting beside her. “It must have been a most terrible shock. Was Mr. Talmadge a good employer?”

The lady nodded. “Yes, he was. He was a kind man. A little odd, but a kind man. I was twenty when I first came here to work, and I'm forty-five now.” She nodded again. “Yes, I'm forty-five now.”

At Holmes's prompting, the housekeeper recounted all that had occurred, and to the best she could remember it. The speech was interspersed with sobs, and long pauses while the dear woman tried to calm herself.

“And this visitor, he or she did not ring the doorbell?” Holmes enquired.

“If they did, I did not hear it, sir. Sometimes the kettle whistles, or I'm tidying up the crockery, and then I don't hear much else at all. My ears aren't what they used to be. I'm forty-five now.”

“Yes, I believe you did say. Did you perhaps hear the visitor talking with your master at the door, or in the hall?”

“No sir. I only heard Mr. Talmadge go to open the door. But I _did_ hear his study door close shut a minute later.”

“But nothing else?”

“No sir.”

“Was Mr. Talmadge in the habit of locking his study door when he was inside the room?”

“Yes sir, he occasionally did.”

“Do you know why he might do that?”

“I don't rightly know, sir. He was a private gentleman. I didn't ask.”

“Did he usually open his study windows at night?”

Mrs. Barker renewed her weeping. “No sir.”

Holmes nodded. He took a notebook from his pocket and scribbled down a few short lines.

“Mrs. Barker,” said he, “I found something curious while I was inspecting your master's bedroom. Do you have any idea as to where the jasper skull might be now? It has disappeared from its shelf.”

The housekeeper clapped both her hands to her face. “Oh!” she gasped softly, rocking forward and back in her chair. “Oh! Oh! The skull!”

“Mr. Holmes,” said Inspector Lestrade, “if you don't mind, I think we should cut short this questioning. Mrs. Barker is far too upset to continue. Do you have everything else you might need for the time being? Yes? We shall no doubt see you later, then. Keep us informed of any news and useful facts, please, and thank you.”

Disgruntled, we were cast back onto the street. Holmes looked up at the windows and the drainpipe that stretched downward from the gutter to the ground.

“He must have been a very light and nimble fellow, Holmes,” I said, following his gaze. 

“We might have confirmed it if you had let me through the window, Watson,” said he. He patted my shoulder. “But thank you.” He sighed then. “Why are women always so emotional? I wonder what the housekeeper might have had to say about the skull, if Lestrade had let her speak? Drat him.”

“I don't believe she was aware that it had vanished,” I said. “She seemed very distraught. Well, Holmes, what do we do now?”

“I have several tentative lines of enquiry,” said Holmes. “Let us return to Baker Street.”

Once home, my friend curled himself up with a city directory, and notebook and pencil. By now it was late morning, so I called down to Mrs. Hudson for some sandwiches and tea. This whole affair had me quite rattled – not least the adventure with the window – and I wondered how on earth Holmes might proceed in tracking down the mystery visitor. I dared to ask him as much, as he leafed through the pages.

“Oh, why, partly with the help of this, of course,” said he, removing from his pocket a small tan-leather book and waving it aloft. “I took Talmadge's address book from his desk drawer.”

I stared at him in disbelief. “You stole important evidence?”

Holmes tutted in annoyance.

“I borrowed it. There is a difference. I shall return it later this afternoon. Or tomorrow. Lestrade could not _possibly_ be any more irate with me than he already is.”

I shook my head. “I should not underestimate him. Really, Holmes...”

My friend continued with his pencil work. I plied him with a sandwich and a piping cup of tea, which he accepted. I craned over his shoulder at his scribble, and saw a long list of addresses of the local antique shops.

“Ah,” I said, “you think that the skull may have been stolen to be sold by this fellow? Do you believe that may have been the true motive – or was it an opportune theft?”

“I cannot yet say,” replied Holmes. “Although several pertinent facts do stand out.”

“What are they?”

He smiled slightly, pursed his lips and did not say. I let him have his secrets for the moment. I drank my tea and ate my lunch, and then whilst sitting with my pipe looked over at him once again. He had stopped writing and was looking very pensive, lost in his dream world. His elbow on the chair arm, with head crooked sideways and temple resting in his palm, he seemed a figure in deep thought. At intervals, he frowned and flinched; occasionally he closed his eyes. I was on the point of making some remark at this, when I saw his eyelids flicker and his gaze then direct upon me.

“Watson...”

“Yes, Holmes?”

“Never mind. It does not matter.”

I wished that he would share more of his theories and his thinking, instead of _never mind_ , and _it does not matter_. Sometimes, he felt a world away, remote and out of focus.

I watched him take his pencil and recommence writing in his notebook.


	4. Dissecting Mental Health

_Dissecting Mental Health: the Taboo and the Less Spoken_ , the respected volume written and published in 1882 by Dr. Algernon Flyte, once more lay displaced from the bookshelf.

That same afternoon while Holmes had worked on his lists, I had ventured out from our rooms to pay a visit to Bradley's. I was gone a short while, and upon my return found my friend with his hat and his coat at the ready. A small bundle of telegraph forms in his hand, he declared his intention to send them at once.

“Your enquiries to the local antique shops, Holmes?”

“Yes, and other places. It should save time. I don't much fancy traipsing footsore around each one. You are back sooner than expected, Watson. Well, at any rate, I shall see you later.”

The door clattered shut.

I mooned around the sitting-room, at a loss for what to do. It was then I saw the tome upon the hearthrug, propped upright against the side of Holmes's chair. I picked it up, glanced at the cover. I confess I had not read it – for mental health was not my field – but my friend deemed it important, it was clear, by his twice-referencing today. It had no marker, so I flipped past the title pages and acknowledgements to the chapter list. I wondered which of these had fascinated Holmes: _Melancholia_ (possibly?) ... _The Branches of Psychosis_ (another possibility, if it related to Talmadge) ... _Sexual Deviance_ (I discounted this, although not without a skimming of the chapter. It was, of course, the usual dour dissection; well-meaning but misguided, as expected) ... _Drug Addiction: The Cause and Effect on the Mind_ ...

The latter chapter seemed to me well-thumbed. I put down the book, my mood depressed. I set myself to thinking of all the times of late that Holmes had seemed distracted and remote. I prayed that he had not relapsed... 

I turned out all of his desk drawers in anxious search for the morocco case. Yielding little but the usual desk detritus, the root extended to his bedroom. 

Rarely had I ventured this invasion of my friend's privacy. But in this case, I felt it purely justifiable – for I could not bear to think of him distressed, reliant on the needle. A dress shirt was lying on the floor, discarded. I went to his bedside cabinet and, hesitantly now, opened the drawer. A small bottle of some headache cure; a snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in the centre of the lid; a handkerchief; a signet ring. And there, close to the back and tucked away, the accursed case. I removed it from its confines, undid the catch, and... 

The phials were dry and empty; the syringe bare of its needle. I drew a large sigh of relief. I closed the case and replaced it inside the drawer. I looked around me. Sitting on the bed, my eyes alighted on the shirt bunched in a ball. 

It is likely you will think less of me when I tell you what I did. For I picked up the shirt and held it close against my face. I breathed in his scent, the musk, the sweet...

I sat there for many minutes, in heady bliss at this close contact with an article of clothing so freshly worn close to his skin. I imagined us then, both upon the bed, without our shirts; in fact without any damn discretion whatsoever. I was thus lost within my fantasy: of my manhandling him into some pliant tangle, where he might find himself – to his surprise – imploring me to breach him without mercy, when –

“Watson, where are you? Watson!”

There could be no man in the city or beyond who felt a greater sense of guilt at that stark moment. 

In addition to which, I was doing battle with a belligerent cockstand.

I threw down the shirt, stood up, rushed to the door. I hoped that I might ease through to the sitting-room without alarm, but to my extreme embarrassment Holmes was but three steps away.

The expression on his face was quite a picture.

“Watson,” said he. “Why were...?”

“I was looking to see where you were,” I said, almost totally flustered by now.

“But you knew that I was out...?”

“I had forgotten?” I offered lamely.

I felt his searching gaze upon me.

“Very well,” he said, turning away. I was grateful for his discretion which no doubt I ill deserved. I dived for my fireside chair and scrabbled for my pipe and matches.

I noticed far too late that I had not replaced the volume by Dr. Flyte as I had found it. I had, in fact, forgotten it upon the arm of Holmes's chair. Did it matter so much? We often shared books after all. 

Holmes had seen it. He scooped it up without a word and set it back upon the bookshelf. 

Why in god's name had I sat down?! I should have retired to my own bedroom, where I could take care of this wretched--

“Watson,” said he, interrupting my fret, “what are your plans for tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? I have no plans as yet. Will you be requiring my assistance?”

Holmes nodded curtly. “Yes, I think so. Thank you,” he added. “I hope to receive a reply to one or more of my telegrams. There are other things besides. It is too late to do anything now.”

“Of course. I understand.”

“Thank you,” he said again.

And gradually, my guilty feelings – and the other – relaxed and lessened, and my thoughts turned to tomorrow, optimistic for results.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nine o'clock the Friday morning saw us once more along Peregrine Way. 

“Now listen here, Watson,” said Holmes. He removed from his pocket the tan-leather address book. “While I talk with the housekeeper, do you think you could take this back up to the study? It belongs in the upper-right desk drawer. There were only four addresses inside it. Four! That may be better suited for our purposes, but it says little for Mr. Talmadge's social life.”

I accepted the book reluctantly. “I do wish you had _asked_ to borrow it in the first instance. At least the constable has gone, but now I wonder where Lestrade is?”

“Oh, who cares,” said my friend. “Most likely with his feet up on his desk at Scotland Yard.”

Holmes rang the bell, and within a minute we were both inside the house.

“The Inspector is somewhere,” Mrs. Barker declared with a grimace. “Come through to the kitchen.”

My friend went the one way while I went the other. The house was quite still, not a footstep nor creak could I hear as I made my traverse to the study. The door was unlocked. I stepped inside and circumnavigated the rust-brown blood stains to the desk. I replaced the address book just as Holmes had asked. With a feeling of accomplishment, I made ready to leave.

“I saw you do that.”

Inspector Gregson was in the doorway, filling the larger part of the frame with his athletic bulk.

“I have no idea what you could mean,” I said. “I am waiting for Holmes.”

The Inspector stepped into the room. He pointed towards the desk. “You put something inside the drawer.”

I sighed. “It was Talmadge's address book,” I confessed. “I was just, er, taking a look at it.”

Gregson chuckled. “You would make a terrible liar, Dr. Watson,” said he. “I checked those drawers the very first thing this morning. They contained no address book then.” He moved closer towards me. “Did you remove the book yesterday? Take it away from the premises?”

“No! Well, perhaps. At least, I didn't.”

“Ah, it was Mr. Holmes. I understand.” The Inspector nodded. “All the same, as I am sure you must be aware, it is highly irregular.”

“Yes, I know. I do apologise, Gregson.” 

Our proximity felt uncomfortable.

Gregson smiled and moved away. “It is all right. It shall be our secret. Just as long as it doesn't happen again, eh.”

I promised that it would not, and escaped back down the stairs, somewhat perplexed by the event. I stepped outside to take the air, and to look up at the house. I wondered what might happen to it now Talmadge was dead. Idly, I gazed up at the drainpipe. I looked closer. And closer again. I returned inside the house.

Reluctant to disturb my friend, I dallied in the stairwell by the pantry, listening to the muffled voices from within the cosy kitchen. Ten minutes had gone by before the door hitched and drew open.

“There you are,” said Holmes. “Why ever are you lurking?”

He caught me by the elbow and we sailed back out into the street.

“I learned a little more without that idiot Lestrade,” said he. “Why, Watson, whatever are you smirking at?”

“ _Look_ ,” I said. I led him to the drainpipe. “Look. The pipe has pulled away from its fixing just here. And there too, a little higher up. There are some small fragments of brick, see, that have fallen. I observed all of this, Holmes,” I said, my chest puffed proudly.

“So you did,” said my friend. “Well done, Watson. Now _listen_. This is what I have discovered. Mrs. Barker is a widow. Her late husband passed away five years ago from a liver complaint, whereupon the lady, in her loneliness, moved back into her rooms here at Peregrine Way. Mr. Talmadge was happy to have her, she informs me. She retains no close family, only a remote cousin by the name of Eugene Dawkins, of whom she had little enough to say. Regarding the names in Talmadge's address book, she was able to tell me a little about each of the men. Regrettably, Mrs. Barker was unable to suggest which of the four – if any – might have visited that night. I must make my own enquiries in that direction. She does not know if there was a third key that existed for the study. Talmadge had no intimate acquaintance that she knew of. He was retired, but was writing an historical novel – his first. Mrs. Barker, as it transpires, appears afraid of the jasper skull, saying it 'gives her the willies' just to look at it. What a dreadful phrase. She has no idea as to its value. At which point in the interview, alas, she began to weep again and simply would not shut up. So I extended my condolences and made a swift exit. And so, Watson, here we are.”

“Yes,” I said. “Here we are. But what do we do now?”

“I intend to follow up with the four chums. You may prefer to return home and wait for me there.”

“Very well.” I felt glum that Holmes had not made very much of my drainpipe discovery. It surely proved, at least, that someone had climbed down it – and most recently. However, I supposed I should allow Holmes his own musings, and so I made my way back home.

By three o'clock, he had returned, a leaf-strewn whirlwind through the door, shedding coat and hat and gloves in cross abandon.

“It is too warm for gloves now,” he exclaimed. “Remind me the next time before I go out. They are an absolute nuisance to store in one's pocket.”

“All right,” I said. Then: “What news of the four fellows?”

Holmes threw himself into his chair.

“They each reside in a far corner of London,” said he, huffing. “Hence why it is now past three o'clock, blast it. I have been racing around tracking each of them down. An absolute waste of time, might I add. Two of the fellows are abroad on separate business, their wives informed me. The third is a wheelchair-bound octogenarian. The fourth gentleman was run down by a carriage last week, and is in the infirmary with two broken legs.”

“Oh dear.”

“My throat is parched. Watson, could you...?”

I hastened down to Mrs. Hudson to request a pot of tea. When I returned, my friend was frowning at the mantelpiece, a finger to his lips.

“Mrs. Barker's cousin, Dawkins,” he pondered slowly. “That name seems familiar.”

“I do not know anyone by that name,” I said.

“I have seen it very recently,” said Holmes. “I must think where.”

The tea tray arrived. I poured a cup for Holmes and took it to him. And then, as he accepted it, our hands touched, for a brief moment. He flinched, almost as if he had been scalded – and in fact he almost was, as a greater measure of the liquid ended up inside the saucer.

“Terribly sorry, old fellow,” I said, reclaiming his cup. “I shall pour you another.”

And he, saying nothing, stared into thin air. I supposed he was trying to put a name to a place, and so I thought nothing about it.


	5. A Bizarre Curiosity

Two hours later, and a knock at the front door yielded a burst of activity.

Holmes burst in from the landing with a telegraph envelope in his hand.

“I have a telegram,” he said. “And one is better than nothing.” He ripped it open, scanned it rapidly. “Hum. It is from Lestrade, who reports that a thorough search of the Talmadge residence revealed no trace of a jasper skull. They managed to open the safe in the main bedroom, and it confirmed what Talmadge told us – that it was full of his papers and deeds and not much else.”

“Then we are reliant upon a response from one of the antique shops,” I said. “I suppose that the four friends can be discounted from the enquiry?”

My friend grimaced. “A man who is out of the country can neither murder, nor steal a stone skull. A fellow in a wheelchair cannot shimmy down a drainpipe, nor can he easily navigate two flights of stairs – which might also prove an impossibility for a man with two broken legs. And why should such a skull be stolen, if not for financial gain? I imagine that there may well be some private collectors in the city who would covet such an object. That is another avenue to follow.”

“But just imagine possessing a collection of skulls,” I said, shivering. “How morbid. Enough to give a fellow nightmares.”

Holmes nodded. “Indeed, as so it proved with our friend Talmadge. Do you know anything of crystal, Watson?”

“Only a little,” I replied. “Or of jasper in particular, do you mean? I have read – and I cannot recall exactly where – that it is a great healing stone. It is said that meditation with a jasper can provide insight into a problem.”

Holmes snorted. “And you believe it?”

I chuckled. “I am a practical fellow. I have not tried meditation, and I have little idea as to how one might attempt to 'heal' with a crystal. But _supposedly_ , from what I have read--” (and here again my friend snorted) “-- a crystal that is carved into the image of a skull carries more, er, power, shall we say, than its uncarved counterpart. Er...”

“Very well explained, Watson,” said Holmes dryly, with a roll of his eyes. “I shall certainly know what to buy you for Christmas.” He sat in his chair and set his chin in his hand. “The housekeeper provided me with a detailed description of the skull. It is a red jasper, of course, as we both know. It also happens to have a large 'vug' at the back, and an agate inclusion in the forehead. The poor woman had to dust it quite often enough to remember its characteristics. You don't know what a vug is? Well, look it up. Dawkins, Dawkins, Dawkins... Ah! Watson! I think that I have it!” 

He foraged for his notebook. 

“ _Dawkins' Curiosity Bizarre_ ,” he exclaimed. “What a great fool I am.”

“One of the antique shops?”

“Yes. Near Pall Mall. Something of a coincidence, don't you think, eh? I wonder if it is the same fellow. Well, there is only one way to find out.” Holmes glanced at his watch. “It is a little late now. Where do the hours fly away to? Mr. Dawkins shall be our first port of call tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I think that I shall research the wealthier private stone and gem collectors in the city. I hope there are not too many.” He sighed and rubbed his temples.

“Are you feeling unwell, Holmes?”

“I am all right,” he snapped. “Just leave me be. Do you have nothing to do?”

His tone hurt me. “I have a little paperwork.” I turned away. “I shall be quiet then, as it seems I am talking too much.”

I heard him exhale. Nothing else was forthcoming. The atmosphere had soured and I had not the faintest notion as to why. Eventually, I made my excuses and retreated to my bedroom for some respite. It was barely half-past-five and I was already dreading dinner. Holmes's moods were so mercurial, impossible to predict. As I lay there on the bed, I heard him tune his violin and set to scraping some discordant twelve bar dirge. This repeated for some minutes, each more erratic than the last, and I hoped that it might end soon. I raged quietly at the futility of loving a man who could never return the emotion. A man who only spoke of the softer passions with a gibe and a sneer. A man whom, despite all of that, I still desperately loved, so forsaking all others. I brought my hands up to cover my eyes and considered myself as the sorriest chump.

The music had stopped. I strained my ears, for I seemed to hear an advancing foot tread on the stair.

A soft tap at my door.

I cleared my throat. “Yes?”

“Watson, it is me.” A pause. “What are you doing?”

“Napping,” I lied. “What do you want, Holmes?”

I waited while he considered this difficult question.

“To come in?”

“Come in, then.”

The door opened a fraction and then wider. I slowly became dimly aware that my friend had very seldom been inside my room. I squinted up. He smiled, a little, queasily.

“May I come in?” he enquired again.

I waved him over to a chair. He moved in the general direction but declined to sit down.

“I upset you,” he said, sounding puzzled. “Watson, did I?”

I sat up.

“Perhaps a little,” I admitted. “It was silly of me. I am sure you didn't mean to--”

“I'm sorry,” he blurted. “I can't remember whatever it was that I said, but I'm sorry.”

I blinked. “Thank you. You don't have to apologise for--”

“I really am very sorry,” he said. “I say things without thinking.” His face was flushed a dark red.

“It is quite all right, Holmes,” I told him. My heart fluttered and ricocheted, cavorted and fainted.

“That is all,” said he. He edged towards the door again, his eyes still fixed upon me.

“Thank you,” I said softly. There seemed so much more I could say, but I could not think what. My tongue was tied dumb. My friend seemed similarly affected; he turned to depart. The door clicked shut. I listened while he padded down the stairs, entered the sitting-room, and from there into his bedroom. All was now quiet.

I had no explanation. I arose and studied my reflection in my dressing table mirror.

I was smiling.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, being Saturday, we set off for Pall Mall. Holmes had been quiet the previous evening, retiring to bed at ten o'clock. It had seemed to me a meditative silence, and so I joined him in his whimsy, staunching my babble and my questions. And now with the spring air upon us, the sun bright in the sky, I felt my spirits rise once more.

I noticed my friend was hanging back, looking around to left and right.

“What is it?” I asked. “We are close to Pall Mall. The shop is in the next street.”

“Yes, I am quite aware that we are close to Pall Mall,” Holmes replied. “There is someone whom I wish to avoid who lives by here.”

“Oh!” My curiosity was tickled. “And who might that be?”

Holmes shook his head. “Oh, never mind. It is no-one of importance.” He recommenced to look in all directions. “Come along, Watson, and don't drag your heels.”

Dawkins' Curiosity Bizarre was one shop amongst a few that nestled snugly down a small side street. Its fascia, painted blue, had softly faded over time. An old metal sign revolved – and loudly squeaked – outside the entrance door. _ANTIQUES!_ exclaimed the one side, and: _COME INSIDE!_ tempted the other. The window display was crammed with oddities. I peered through, fascinated. There were sea-faring relics: scrimshaw bones and fierce teeth. Ornate kerosene lamps in rich, vibrant colours. Pewter goblets and dishes, gold boxes, brass bowls. I found it all enthralling and magnificent.

“What a pile of old tat,” said my friend by my side. “Well, let's go in.”

The bell jingled as we entered. The shop was sprawling, aisled, chaotic, quite fantastic. Glass-topped counters all around, each one displaying its themed treasures. There were no price tags. I extended my startled admiration to an African mask pinned to the wall, framed by four sharp and gruesome spears. We passed by paintings, some hung, some not, and glanced at porcelain and glassware. We excused ourselves around three customers conferring in an aisle, and marched up to the counter at the far side of the room. Behind it sat a gentleman of some fifty years of age, with rather more than a trace of the cadaver about him. His thin face, although smooth and unblemished, was pale, almost ghostlike. His hair was a side-thought of tufted grey curl. The spectacles perched atop his nose were small enough to be of little use if he should have a need to focus. The high stool that he was balanced on creaked in an agony as he leaned to rest his elbows on the counter. His smile was broad, his teeth were few.

“Good morning!” said he. “And how may I help you?”

“Are you Mr. Dawkins?” my friend enquired.

The gentleman nodded. “Yes sir, that I am. I am the owner of this establishment.”

“Mr. Eugene Dawkins?”

“Yes, yes.” His smile faded in disappointment. His fingers twiddled the handsome quartz point on the gold chain around his neck. “You do not wish to make a purchase? Only to ask me my name?”

“It was recommended that we ask for you in person,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Our friend informed us that you are an eminent force in the field of antiques.”

Mr. Dawkins puffed his feathers as a proud peacock might do. His cheeks assumed a pinch of colour.

“Oh, well, that is altogether very different!” he exclaimed. “My, my! Who has been talking about me? How very kind.” He adjusted his spectacles; the most futile of gestures. “Now, please, my honourable gentlemen, what can I do for you?”

“My friend and I are collectors of rare crystals and semi-precious stones,” said Holmes. “I have a special fondness for red jasper in particular, and was hoping you might have something of that nature in your stock.”

The fellow swivelled on his stool and cast a squinted glance around him at his cabinets.

“Hmm, oh my,” said he. “That is the question. I believe that I may have a set of cuff-links and some signet rings. I shall bring you the tray...”

“Thank you, no, that won't be necessary,” my friend replied. “You do not have anything larger than that?”

“Oh!” said Mr. Dawkins, “You surely mean a carving, or a tumblestone?”

“That is exactly what I mean.”

“I regret that I have nothing. I could, however, take your details, and if such an item should come in...?”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Dawkins,” said my friend. “In all of these large displays, with so many hundreds of rare items, you have no jasper? How about behind those curtains?” Holmes pointed to an area of the shop that was curtained off. “I can assure you, I have the money...”

“I am very sorry sir,” said Mr. Dawkins, “but I have nothing for sale. No, not for sale.” 

“That is disappointing, but I understand. Thank you for your time.”

“You are very welcome.” The old man rose up from his stool and, clutching a dust-cloth, limped across to a glass cabinet and set to polishing its front.

“Does your leg pain you?” my friend enquired.

Mr. Dawkins smiled as he polished. “Ah no, sir, 'tis but paralytic polio in my right leg, back from when I was a lad. Feel free to take a look around the shop, sir. Always happy to help.”

I found myself drawn to the jewellery display, an octagonal case to one side of the counter. Holmes tutted and sighed (for he loathed most forms of shopping), and left me alone to my browse. I was only five minutes, but his face was a pinched irritation by the time I rejoined him back out on the street.

“What were you _doing_ in there?” he demanded. He caught sight of my bag with the shop's name upon it. “Wasting your money again.”

I ignored him. “Why did you pretend to be a customer?” I asked. “And why did you not ask him any questions about Mrs. Barker or Talmadge?”

We set off down the street.

“I was attempting to be subtle,” said my friend. “If I had been too direct, I fear our friend would have clammed up. That is, if he knew anything at all about the skull. This way, I hoped to worm a little positive information. Which, alas, was not forthcoming, but never mind. The tree may yet bear fruit. Did you happen to hear the discussion in which those other three were engaged?”

“Which three? The group that we passed in the aisle? No.”

“Watson, you really should pay attention. One of them – the taller fellow, with the moustache similar to yours – was fairly animated. I heard him declare quite distinctly: _'I have such a passion for jasper!'_. Now, what do you make of that?”

“Most likely he heard our own enquiry at the counter, and was passing comment to his friends. Or it was a coincidence.”

“It was before we spoke to Dawkins. I suppose, as you say, it could have been a pure coincidence. If so, the fellow will be quite out of luck. Let us drop in at Scotland Yard and see if any progress has been made from that direction.”

We did, and there was not. Inspector Gregson was away and enjoying his weekend, but an irascible Lestrade was there to tell us the dim news. Holmes outlined our short visit to Dawkins' Curiosity Bizarre. The Inspector seemed very underwhelmed, and even more so when he learned of the proprietor's physical state. We were roundly informed that we were 'bleating up a blind alley' (Lestrade's own phrasing), and didn't we know there was a murder to solve? To avoid a second altercation, I removed Holmes from the premises and we wended our way home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“There is something that I cannot put my finger on yet,” said Holmes. 

We were back within our sitting-room. I was at the table, busy with paper and with ribbon, while he was in his chair, craning his neck around to frown at me. I had evidently distracted his train of thought.

“Watson, whatever are you doing?”

I held up the coil of ribbon. “Wrapping a gift.”

“A gift? What gift?”

“A cameo brooch. I procured it at Dawkins'.” 

Holmes bounded out of his chair and hovered over my shoulder. His displeasure was clear. “For some woman.”

“Well,” I said. “She is not just _any_ woman.” 

Holmes did not reply at once. I felt his silence at my neck, and had an idea that he might be planning some form of physical attack. I twisted around.

“Holmes,” I said, “whatever is wrong?”

His expression was quiet, controlled. “Nothing is wrong. I am...”

“You are what?”

“I am... happy for you.”

“You are happy that I am wrapping a brooch for Mrs. Hudson's birthday?” Sometimes I could scarce believe or understand the logic of the man.

My friend's face went through several changes of expression, neither one of which made any sense to me. 

“You had forgotten,” I decided.

“Yes.”

“It is next week. You still have time. Please don't buy her another coal scuttle,” I added.

I felt his hand upon my shoulder. I thrilled at his touch.

“Thank you, Watson, for your advice, as sound as usual. I shall bear it in mind.”

I shook my head at this strange interlude. 

And then, the brooch gift-wrapped, the ribbon curled, the tag attached, I turned my chair around. Holmes was pacing, his hands behind him, his head bowed down. It appeared he was replaying in his mind our earlier interview with Dawkins.

He stopped short in his tracks and slapped his hand upon the sofa back.

“You have remembered something?” I asked, impressed.

“Yes! Think back, Watson! Something that Dawkins said.” Holmes reached for his coat and hat once more. “I must go out. I don't know how long I shall be.”

And the whirlwind was gone.


	6. The Curious Incident of Holmes in the Night-Time

I followed him, of course, after a moment's deliberation. His long legs had set a pace, but I broke into a trot and caught him hailing down a hansom.

“Watson,” he said in bewilderment, “what...?”

“I had nothing better to do,” I puffed. “And you might require my assistance.”

Holmes's lip curled up, amused that I had exerted such great effort to keep him company.

“Always, my dear fellow,” said he enigmatically. “Now, let us be off.”

Mr. Dawkins was much surprised to have us greet him once again. His stool creaked as if it might collapse and take him with it to the floorboards. He set down the yellow-back he had been reading, and called out across the glass-topped aisles a “Good morning!” once again.

“Holmes!” I hissed, “Those customers are still here.”

Yes, there they were indeed, the three – two gentlemen and a lady – and were now standing in a huddle close to the heavy-curtained wall. They paid us little mind, lost in their own engrossing mardle.

This fact intrigued my friend as much as it had astounded me. He detoured and together we went to meet the merry trio. The taller of the three, the fellow with 'my' moustache, as Holmes described it, was the most garrulous. He introduced himself as Jacob Stone – a research librarian – and these were his friends, a married couple, Mr. and Mrs. Simeon Dickens. I would have placed all three of them at around thirty years of age and well-to-do.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” my friend said, smiling, “and this man here is Dr. John Watson, who has already spent half his wallet here this morning and now returns for a second bout.” To appreciative laughter, Holmes continued: “You all seem very taken with this emporium. Might I ask what holds you here?”

“Oh, well, yes,” replied Stone. “The owner – who is our friend, you know! – has been given the most _exquisite_ artifact. We have been promised an audience, and are now about to go through.”

“How fascinating. What is the artifact?”

Stone might have answered, but for Mr. Dawkins sweeping in (as best he might on one good leg) and standing defensive before the curtain, a grey-haired sentry, most indignant.

“Now, now,” said he, “I see you all in conflab, and I wonder what about. It is viewing by appointment, sirs, viewing by appointment. There is a fee, you know.”

“Mr. Dawkins,” said my friend, “please do elaborate.”

The fellow sighed, but he relented.

“It is a skull, gentlemen, nothing less and nothing more. If that does not interest you, then there are many other items in my shop that may well do. It is not for sale. You may, however, view it for a fee, as I have mentioned.”

Mr. Jacob Stone let out a chuckle at the expressions on our faces.

“Ah, Dawkins, do allow me to continue,” said he, smiling. “You are confusing our two friends here.” Stone addressed us: “It is a meditative session. The skull is a very old and precious stone. Mr. Dawkins hopes to tour with it, but for the moment it remains here where stone enthusiasts – like us – can share some space and time and thought.”

“I see,” said Holmes. “Mr. Dawkins, what is this 'tour' that you are thinking of?”

“A tour of healing, of meditation,” shrugged the old man. “I have not planned it through just yet.”

“And how did you come by the skull?”

“It was bequeathed to me by a family member.”

I held my breath – for now the tree was 'bearing fruit', as Holmes would say.

“How generous,” said my friend in an even tone. “We should be interested in a short appointment with this remarkable object. Might you tell us the fee?”

Dawkins named a preposterous sum which my friend paid without demur.

“So might we go through now?” enquired Mr. Simeon Dickens, an amiable fellow. “We have been so looking forward.”

“One moment, please,” said Dawkins. “I cannot do all things at once, and someone has to watch the shop. Stone, I trust you, sir, here is the key. Please do be careful.”

Jacob Stone drew the red curtain, unlocked a door and led us through to a small room. A round table in the centre, laid with lace cloth and, on the top of it, a lustrous, large red jasper skull. It seemed to reflect all of the light within the room, and the expression on its face – if I could even call it that – was cheerful and benign.

“Its name is Bugalugs,” said the fellow with a chuckle. “Excuse me for my rudeness, but I simply must go first.”

And Jacob Stone leaned low to look the skull squarely in the socket, and then he placed both of his hands upon its crown and closed his eyes.

Holmes and I exchanged wry glances, for it seemed the oddest thing to do.

“How beautiful,” said Stone, as he released his hold and straightened up. “Such warmth and humour.”

I supposed it was my turn, for I doubted Holmes would stand for any of this nonsense.

I copied Stone's manoeuvre, and closed my eyes as he had done. What I thought, I could not say. What I felt, perhaps: in my left palm, the faintest tingle, growing stronger. I opened my eyes, removed my hands.

“Well?” all three demanded, Stone and the pair of married Dickens. “Well?”

“I am not sure?” I said. “I think, a tiny tingle.”

Hazel Dickens clapped her hands and all but hopped upon the spot.

“Now, Mr. Holmes, sir, would you care...?” Stone offered.

“No,” said my friend, “I don't think so, but thank you. Come, Watson.”

Holmes hooked me from the cubicle out into the brightness of the shop.

“Watson,” said he, “in all seriousness, really? A _tingle?_ ”

“I felt a tingle,” I repeated sullenly. “I don't know what else I can tell you.”

“How simply glorious,” he replied. “'Bugalugs' must have taken a fancy to you. Now, which asylum would you prefer I place you into?” 

“Don't be ridiculous,” I said. I watched him as he crossed over to see Dawkins once again and to strike up a conversation. Sulking and off-kilter, I mooched along a dusty aisle. This one was filled with Mayan treasures: beads and pots and ancient weaponry. One case appeared much cleaner than the others. I peered in with no great interest, but something called to my attention. I looked around for Holmes who was approaching at that moment.

“Holmes,” I said, “look.”

In the case: a small display of Mayan sacrificial daggers, fashioned from chert stone so according to the label. One of these was missing; an empty space where it had lain.

“What?” said he. “I can see what they are. Mayan daggers.”

“Yes,” I said, “but look. Do you recall that Lestrade informed us the murder weapon had a thin, broad blade? _These_ are thin and broad! And one is missing! And the case has been recently touched!”

“Watson, I would not become over-excited,” said Holmes, stooping closer to look all the same. “This is, after all, an antiques shop. Items are put up for sale and then sold. Such a knife, had it been used, given its age would have left a debris in the wounds that Scotland Yard could not have missed.”

I had not considered that, to my great shame. I felt deflated. Holmes squeezed my arm.

“Watson, it is all right, at least you are _trying_ to come up with solutions. You are remarkable in many ways, you surely realise.” 

“I am?”

“Yes,” my friend said firmly. “You... are a conductor of light.”

That cheered me up enormously, although I was not sure altogether what it meant.

“What did Dawkins say?” I asked, when the door had jingled shut and we had stepped onto the pavement. “What is happening in this case, Holmes? Who is telling the truth?”

“Anybody. Nobody. Mr. Dawkins remains adamant that his cousin, Mrs. Barker, sent him the skull on the Thursday morning with a message that it now belonged to her and she thought that he might like it, since she had neither a use nor wish for it. She did not ask for any money.”

“How peculiar!”

“Yes. The more so, as they are not particularly intimate, having quarrelled in the past. Dawkins immediately realised the potential of what he was holding, and believed it might be better used and more profitable in the long term as a mystical 'prop'. So – one or both of them is lying. Talmadge died intestate. Mrs. Barker holds no claim to anything. Which is why it is odd that she did not attempt to make a profit from what she took. Let us go and revisit the lady now, and see what she has to say. These are murky waters, Watson.”

There was no answer at Peregrine Way. The door was locked, the windows shuttered. A next-door neighbour kindly informed us that the housekeeper, being so traumatised by the recent sad events, was spending the weekend with a friend, but: _“I couldn't tell you where, sir. She will be back again on Monday.”_

“Monday!” Holmes exclaimed, as we searched the main road for a hansom. “That is a nuisance. Oh well. It cannot be helped.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That afternoon was curious. Mrs. Hudson served us lunch, after which we sat and idled with a pot of strong black coffee. Holmes seemed over-agitated. He cast me frequent anxious glances and turned away if I acknowledged them. He took down first one volume and then another from the bookshelf, yet not finding what he sought, for his strange mood did not improve.

“I might be able to answer your question,” I said.

He looked up with a start. “I beg your pardon?”

I pointed to the bookshelf. “You have been searching those medical texts for the past hour and a half. They are evidently of no use.” I smiled. “Have you forgotten that I am a doctor?”

Holmes seemed put out.

“I had not forgotten,” said he. Then: “Why must you pay such close attention to what I read?”

“Don't be so peevish,” I said – and I stuck out my tongue.

He stared.

“I have something for you, by the way,” I said. I reached down by the side of my chair and retrieved the 'Dawkins' bag. I waved it aloft. Holmes took one step forward, suspicious.

“What is it?”

“Open it and see.”

“But... it is not my birthday.”

“I know. I just saw it this morning and thought you might like it.”

He accepted the bag. Delving inside it, he pulled out a box. Flipping open the lid, he studied the content. There was an interminable pause, the full duration of which I roundly cursed my impetuosity. I averted my eyes, embarrassed.

“Thank you, Watson. You are perfectly mad, but very kind and it is perfect.”

I opened my eyes. Holmes was holding the gift, a silver tie-pin in the elegant form of a long-stemmed bloom.

“What a lovely thing a rose is,” Holmes began.

I listened, quite enchanted, as he expounded. I had never heard him wax as poetic. I was in awe. He stopped to examine it closely again.

“Will you... attach it?” Holmes held it out. “I have no mirror.”

A curiously intimate performance, and my fingers felt quite numb as I secured the pin upon my friend's cravat. With his looking one way and I yet the other, I felt unaccountably shy.

I desired so strongly to kiss him, and I wondered what he would have done if I had.

It would have ruined everything.

“It suits you very well,” I said.

He said nothing, but nodded, and we returned to our chairs. Holmes touched the tie-pin, gently, as if to check it was still there.

We spoke a little, more, about the strangeness of our day. I confessed to a lingering disquiet at my experience with the skull, which my friend was quick to pooh-pooh. Holmes had, of course, no patience with any 'thing' that was not flat-footed on the ground. He did not believe in ghosts and he did not believe in magic, and he most certainly was sceptical upon the subject of crystal skulls.

Men of science are quite often this way.

By the evening, and after dinner, we had gravitated to the sofa side by side to sip our brandy. The room chill again, the fire had been lit, the orange glow extending out to touch our faces with its comfort.

I could not tear my eyes from him – and was terrified that he should turn and notice. But his attention was set dreamily upon the burning, crackled coals, and I decided that he would not find me out. 

Unattainable, impossible, miraculous man. The love of my life.

(It appears that brandy makes me maudlin.)

“Watson,” he said, almost as if talking to the flames. “Watson, have you ever been in love?”

Now, what the devil could I say to that? 

“Yes,” I said, and prayed he would not probe me any further. And then, because I could not resist, despite all that he had said before, with its scorn and all its mockery: “Have you?”

And I waited, and I waited, but my friend did not reply.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Midnight, and the two of us had each retired to bed. Holmes, quite half an hour before, and I, only just now, having banked the fading fire. I shivered in the moonlight as I shuffled into bed. I knew I should not sleep that night, so many thoughts and wants inside my head. I thought that I might read; I turned to take my book for just one chapter, maybe two – and then I realised I had forgotten it, indeed had left it on the sofa in the sitting-room.

Cursing myself, I crawled into my dressing-gown and slippers, and descended in the dark. Silently, I crept into the room, blinked past the shadows and retrieved what I was looking for.

The strangest sound, from Holmes's room. A gasping wail, abruptly muffled.

It seemed such an uncommon thing that I froze rigid to the spot. I might have suspected his indulging in a solitary pleasure, had not the nature of his lifestyle precluded such a notion. I assumed that he had likely stubbed his foot upon the bed-leg, or dropped a clock upon his toe.

I turned upon my heel, therefore, and retreated back upstairs to bed, to spend a sleepless hour with my book.


	7. "Yes"

Breakfast on Sunday was spent alone, for Holmes was still abed despite the lateness of the hour. I had consumed three cups of coffee and two generous helpings of ham and eggs before his bedroom door drew open. My friend appeared surprised to see me, for some reason, for he started, before moving to the mantel to collect the plugs and dottles for his first pipe of the day.

“Good morning, Watson,” he said at last.

“Good morning, Holmes. Did you sleep well?”

“I slept a little.”

I could not help laughing. “A little! And here it is almost nine-thirty. I should say rather more than a little.”

He smiled at me cautiously, taking his place at the table and pouring a small cup of coffee.

“Watson, you ate all the toast.”

“Well, you were not here,” I said. “And you should know my appetite by now.”

He sat back in his chair and fixed me with a strange regard. I wondered what he might be thinking, if it was not about the toast. Holmes sipped his coffee and refused the ham and eggs. After an interval, he rose up to light his pipe. He stood there at the mantel, sucking in that noxious residue and appearing in a quandary.

“Tomorrow you shall speak with Mrs. Barker,” I reassured him.

“What? Oh, yes, of course.” A pause. “Watson, I propose a walk to shake off all the cobwebs.”

I nodded in amusement at his unusual turn of phrase, finding the idea a pleasant one, for the day was bright and blue, the sun coquettish through the puff-clouds. Observing my friend as he smoked his clay pipe, I saw that he was wearing his tie-pin, my gift. I could scarce conceal my pleasure at this, at realising he admired it and had not been merely humouring my fancy. That he was fond enough to wear it on a Sunday, best of all.

Ten minutes later, arm in arm, we were approaching Regent's Park. And so very many people here, enjoying the spring morning. We kept to the paths, while families around us herded their children into play groups. The air was filled with laughter, trilling chatter, sounds of great sport.

“We should consider ourselves most fortunate if we escape being struck by a racquet-ball,” my friend declared, as we swerved to avoid such a fate. “The children are lethal this morning.”

“They will aim for you first; your hat is taller than mine.”

We rounded the ball games, and by a circuitous route reached the lake where a number of small boats were milling. It was as though the water's surface comprised a million tiny diamonds, so beautifully it glittered as we paused to watch the revels. By luck we found a bench not far away, and sat to rest. Between the intermittent birdsong, the distant bandstand chimed and parped a tune that warped and wafted on the breeze.

I thought of all the times that we had walked here, passed this very spot in companionable silence or happy, disputatious talk. I remembered all our favoured routes, the stalls that we might stop by and the vendors we might greet. These all were precious memories to me; I hoped that Holmes might think so too, if he should think of them at all.

Two young and handsome fellows crossed the path in front of us. They were, perhaps, sixteen, and lithe and merry in their shirt-sleeves marked with grass-stains from a dew-soaked rough and tumble. I wondered if Holmes had resembled one or the other when he was that age. I wished I might have known him then: the small seed yet to become the mighty oak. 

And we remained silent on our bench, each lost and dreaming in our private worlds.

“Yes,” said Sherlock Holmes, all of a sudden, minutes later.

“Yes?” I said, quite startled from my daydream. “Yes to what?”

And he just smiled and shook his head, and squinting at me – for the sun was bright upon his face – rose from the bench and beckoned to me that perhaps we should move on.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Monday arrived to some relief, for it was the day that Mrs. Barker was returning from her bolt-hole, and who knew what she might have to say. Holmes was pensive; I was no better, and so by ten o'clock we found ourselves again outside the Talmadge house.

“The shutters are open,” Holmes noted. He stepped forward and rang on the bell.

Mrs. Barker was put out to have to see us one more time. She made it clear as she invited us into the dim-lit hall, and she made it even clearer as we descended to the kitchen.

“I am a busy woman,” she said sullenly, her hands tangled in her apron. “I am packing some of my boxes and making my arrangements. The house is not mine. I cannot remain here for very much longer.”

“Where will you go?” my friend enquired.

“I shall be moving to the country, sir, to lodge with a dear friend until I find a new position. I am tired of city life. There is so much crime and upset, I cannot bear it any longer. A nice position in a nice country house will suit me very well. One more week and I'll be gone.”

“Mr. Talmadge did not leave a will, of course. You were a faithful servant. Had he made a written promise or verbal mention of your future being provided for, Mrs. Barker?”

The lady's mouth was in a tremor; her chin in pucker as if she might once more return to her lament.

“The master might have said something, but he never put it in writing. I didn't want it anyway! And I can't remember!”

“You didn't want what, precisely, Mrs. Barker? And what can't you remember?”

She clapped her hands to her forehead.

“I didn't want the old skull! The master had said it, once or twice – oh, he was teasing, I was sure of it – that he might make a gift of it to me. And I was scared of it, with those huge red sockets for its eyes and those unnatural, grinning teeth.” The lady shivered. “But I can't remember. It was there before Mr. Talmadge got... well, before what happened to him, bless his soul. And then the next thing I knew, it had gone, sir. That was when you told me, in fact, sir. I didn't know before that.”

“You have no recollection of what might have occurred, or where the skull is currently?”

“No sir, I already told you, I do not.”

“You do not recall sending the skull, with a written message, to your cousin Eugene Dawkins, at his shop near Pall Mall?”

Mrs. Barker's hands began to flutter at her face.

“Oh! I didn't do it! I can't remember! Why should I send it to him? Eugene knew of the skull, of course he did, for I mentioned the horrible thing the last time that we met – which was purely by chance in the butcher's, because we don't make a habit of meeting. I was after a pound of sausages. I have no idea what he was there for. A whole pig's head, knowing him. But, I don't know. Does he have it? Is that what he said? Mr. Holmes! Are you accusing me of stealing?”

Holmes reached out to pat the lady's arm. “It is quite all right. Now, listen to me, I want you to write down a precise description of the skull as you remember it. Yes, I know that you have told us once before, but it is nice to have things written down, I think. Would you be so kind? Thank you. Here is my notebook and a pencil.”

The housekeeper obliged. My friend glanced only briefly before making a few scribbles of his own beneath the lines.

“Thank you, Mrs. Barker. Now, do any of these names appear familiar?”

Holmes showed her the notebook. The lady frowned and leaned forward.

“Mr. Holmes, your handwriting is simply awful, sir. No, I don't know anyone on that list. Are they his cronies?”

“They are his friends, yes. Well, that is all for the time being. No, there is no need to get up, Mrs. Barker, we shall see ourselves out. Good morning.”

Back out in the street, I turned to Holmes, whose mood was now quite petulant.

“I am very confused,” I informed him.

“So am I,” said he. “My handwriting is _not_ awful. But, Watson, that is quite beside the point. We need to go back to see Dawkins. My, my, this is turning into a carousel.”

My friend left me outside at the Bizarre, and was in and out within three minutes. He clapped a hand upon my shoulder.

“So what confuses you?” he asked, as we trod that now familiar street to the main road.

“Everything,” I said.

“Well, Watson, chew on this,” said he. “The damage to the drainpipe was done after the fact.”

“Was it, really?”

“Yes, it was. Do you really think me so unobservant that I should not have noticed on first inspection? The criminal was aware that perhaps their trail lacked credibility, and so sought to compound it.”

“Then what are you saying? That nobody scaled the drainpipe at all? That they held a spare key to the study, and crept out through the door without the housekeeper hearing? But what of the skull? What does Dawkins say now?”

“Dawkins repeats his story without deviation. The interesting fact, my dear fellow, is that Mrs. Barker's handwriting in no way resembles the script that appears on Dawkins' message.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Our journey to Scotland Yard kept my mind reeling, as I clawed through all the evidence. Each new statement seemed to reveal a contradiction, each fact in question. To begin with, a mysterious and deadly night caller, who escaped from a locked room – but via the window, or the door? Was it they who stole the skull and wrote the note and then delivered it to Dawkins? Or was Mrs. Barker lying merely to protect herself? But if the latter were the case, it did not alter the plain fact that her handwriting was not a match to the skull's note! And if the damage to the drainpipe _had_ been done after the fact, then had the criminal scaled the pipe a second time, to regain entry to the study from outside? But for what reason?

My head ached fiercely.

Holmes paid a visit to Lestrade while I lingered in the hallway, reading the bulletins on the noticeboard. I paid little mind to Inspector Gregson who came sniffing at my heels, no doubt for tidbits on the case. He rattled on for several minutes, but of what I could not tell, so deeply furrowed was my brain as I still rolled the facts within it.

“Dr. Watson,” said Gregson, quite sharply and breaking my spell, “you are not paying even the _slightest_ attention.”

“I am very sorry, Gregson,” I replied, “it is just this murder case. I have no idea what's going on.”

“I should hope that Mr. Holmes has some clear notion.”

“I hope so, perhaps.”

Gregson looked from left to right. He leaned in closer to my side. I assumed that he wished to impart a previously unknown piece of data.

“Do you enjoy the theatre, Doctor?”

“What? The theatre? Well, yes, of course.” Whatever was the fellow on about?

“That's grand. And as it happens, so do I. You see, I happen to have two tickets to--”

But whatever play it was that Gregson had two tickets to, I was never likely to find out, for at that moment Sherlock Holmes once more exploded into the hall from Lestrade's office.

“ _Damn_ Lestrade,” said he. “Oh, for goodness sake, everywhere I turn there's another idiot. Go away, Gregson.” 

Holmes fairly chivvied me down the hallway. It was becoming his grand feature, and I resisted it but weakly.

“Holmes,” I attempted. “Your behaviour...”

“What about my behaviour? I won't have that fool Gregson talking to you like that.”

“Like 'that'? Like how?”

Holmes declined to reply. “Lestrade almost threw the lamp at me again. I don't know how he thinks this case is _ever_ going to be solved if I am in the hospital with a concussion. I _may_ have insulted his mother, or whoever it is wedged inside that hideous picture frame he keeps on that mess of a desk of his. It could be his wife, I suppose. Oh well. Anyway--”

“ _Holmes_ ,” I said, despairing, “please slow down. Where are we going?”

“The Holborn,” said he. “I am buying you lunch. You look as if you are about to faint.”

I realised that I was, indeed, suddenly quite ravenous. I was touched by my friend's solicitousness.

The Holborn was, as always, a heaving hub of hungry diners. By Holmes's influence we were allotted a small table by the window, and there we sat, looking at each other across the table cloth. We both seemed lost for words all of a sudden. 

“Why do you not like Gregson?” I asked, if only to break the formidable silence.

Holmes's expression turned sour. “It is nothing specific,” he said. “He is one of the more able Inspectors of the Yard. But a little of him goes a very long way.”

I had no idea what that meant. It seemed the strangest observation. I became fascinated by Holmes's hands, his fingers twisting his cloth napkin into some abstract, knotted mangle. I wanted to take one of those hands in mine. Desired to hold it, feel its warmth, caress the tip of every finger with my tongue.

I'll admit, perhaps not the best course of action in a busy restaurant with an unwitting partner.

But still marginally more acceptable than fellating him from under the table cloth.

I stared down at the menu. I was dithering upon the roast beef, which was twice the price of the sausage stew, when Holmes tapped on the table.

“Watson, do you recall the conversation a while ago with Mrs. Barker? Yes? Well, what struck you as odd about it? Was there anything?”

And he hummed to himself, the infuriating man, and said nothing more, despite all of my questions and my pleading.

I ordered the roast beef.


	8. A Number of Hypotheses

One hour later, I had set my spoon upon the dish and wiped the ice-cream from my lips. For the first time in ten minutes I had looked up to see my friend, who was regarding me most solemnly.

“I declare that you just provided me with the most exquisite imitation of a sucker-fish,” Holmes declared. “I trust you enjoyed it?”

For the former, I was not aware of it, but as for the latter – “I did enjoy it, very much,” and: “thank you, Holmes.” For I had devoured a heaping plate of rich roast beef with all the trimmings, and for dessert a fulsome bowl of that which I was now mopping from my mouth. I felt deliciously full and content.

Holmes had supped two cups of coffee and had smoked three cigarettes.

“Did you mention the skull to Lestrade?” I enquired.

“Yes. He was not so especially interested. His concentration is fixed on the murder. He has taken an interest in Talmadge's address book, and is at present harassing the poor fellow with the two broken legs. He will not listen to me.”

I shook my head in sympathy. “He will not listen to you? He will follow his own theories, then.”

“So what struck you as odd?” Holmes repeated.

I was slow to catch on. “What struck me as odd?”

My friend sighed.

“If you are going to repeat everything that I say then this will be an interminable conversation,” he said. “ _Mrs. Barker_. What struck you as odd, when we last spoke with the woman?”

“I don't know, Holmes,” I said. 

Holmes's facial expression became martyred.

I lit a cigarette. “It is no use your looking at me like that,” I said. “Because I still don't know.”

_“I can't remember.”_

I tutted. “Well, if you can't remember, then how on god's earth do you expect me to?”

“No, no, no.” Irritated. “That was the phrase that Mrs. Barker repeated to us, over and over. _'I can't remember.'_ Do you see now, Watson? To any question that related to those moments around the crime, _she was unable to remember_.”

I nodded, trying my utmost to appear somewhat cognisant. “Mrs. Barker has a poor memory?” I suggested.

“No, no, _no_. If she possessed a poor memory, then surely she would have had difficulty in recollecting with such precise detail the peculiarities of the skull. Also, of where she was and what it was her intent to purchase when she last encountered her errant cousin, Eugene Dawkins. Besides other things. Her memory appears only to malfunction around the time of the murder.”

“From the shock, I would assume.”

“The lady certainly appears to be suffering from a nervous disorder, but that is not the crux.”

“You believe her to have a greater involvement in this affair, then?”

Holmes tapped his fingers thoughtfully upon the table cloth. “All I can say for the moment is this: it would have proven problematical, if not impossible, for the killer to carry a heavy, life-sized crystal skull down a perilous drainpipe and yet somehow still manage to keep a safe hold to the pipe. Assuming that there truly was a meeting with Mr. Talmadge inside his study, the skull's habitual resting place was in the bedroom at the far end of the landing. We have a number of hypotheses, therefore. One: that the murder was committed, whereupon the culprit left the study, entered the main bedroom and stole the skull. They then returned to the study, locked the door from within and exited through the window, with both their prize and the murder weapon in hand. That, quite frankly, seems unlikely. Two: the same scenario, except the killer had obtained a spare key to the study. They created their 'blind' and left by the main door on the ground floor. Our third hypothesis: that Talmadge had brought the skull into his study for some reason, and the crime was perpetrated along largely similar lines as I mentioned. And the last: that there was, in fact, no late night visitor at all.”

These theories subdued me. “I do not believe that Mrs. Barker could be capable of such a vicious crime,” I said, rubbing my chin. “She seems such a gentle soul. And, why, anyone can see that she has become a nervous wreck. I suspect Dawkins. He is the one with the skull, after all.” I paused to think. “But I can't think why the lady would cover for her cousin, when she speaks of him so dismissively. Oh! Holmes! Do you think it is blackmail?”

“I think it is more than that,” said my friend. He took out his wallet. “Come, Watson, if you are quite finished, my dear fellow. I am afraid we must revisit friend Dawkins.”

Holmes's behaviour inside the old antiques shop was baffling to me. I had anticipated a barrage of questions that related to the skull, when in fact all my friend deemed necessary was a discussion around the admirable quartz point pendant at Dawkins' neck. The shop held no other customers at present, and I wondered how the fellow could earn a living on such pickings. The Bizarre seemed such a dormant, dusty nook – almost somnambulant – ill in keeping with the bustle of Pall Mall a stretch away. I was drawn, then, towards the curtained room, curious beyond all measure and most tempted for a second turn with the handsome life-size jasper. I had resolved to find the book I had once read on these strange objects, for I remembered very little of the history. Apparently (as I recalled), a great many thousands of years in the past, there had been thirteen clear quartz skulls, each one created by a separate master craftsman. Individually, they held power enough – but placed together they were said to hold immeasurable strengths of knowledge and of healing. Where were they now? The vast majority lost, or buried, or shattered? Their 'descendants' – such as the jasper – continued the fascination with the legend, which many people still believed in, it was clear. 

The curtained room was locked. Disappointed, I turned away. Holmes was behind me.

“Watson,” said he, “are you in want of another tingle?”

I had no polite answer for that.

“What have you found?” I hissed, as we made our way back onto the street. “I don't understand why you were interrogating Dawkins about the chain around his neck.”

“It was not the chain that piqued my interest,” Holmes replied. “It was the pendant.”

“But why?”

“A quartz point is fairly unusual, wouldn't you say?”

As Dawkins himself was 'unusual' enough, I informed my friend that the notion had not registered particularly. “It is just a piece of jewellery,” I said – and yawned. It had been a long and tiring morning, with a large and sating lunch. I felt in need of a nap.

Holmes, to my surprise, appeared to have anticipated this. 

“I still have some running around,” he informed me, with a touch to my arm. “Go on home, I shall join you as soon as I can.”

I did not argue. Within a short while I was back within our sitting-room, and looking through the cupboards and our bookshelves for the volume I had read however many years ago, upon the legend of the crystal skulls. After some ferreting, I found it – _Mysteries and Legends_ , rather appropriately enough. An adolescent birthday gift to me from my late brother. I examined the flyleaf, a yellowing page. His inscription upon it, in a featherweight scrawl: _'To John, my favourite brother (my only brother!). Happy birthday, love from Harold, 1865.'_ Of course I would have kept it all these years. It had been with me through thick and thin. I felt a pang of guilt at having tucked it out of sight for this long time. The cover was a gaudy daub; the chapters were sensational: _Vampires; Werewolves; Ghosts and Hauntings._ Nothing I cared to study now. But here was what I sought: a later chapter in the book, one boldly titled in a curling font, _The Thirteen Crystal Skulls._

I carried the book to my chair and sat down, and so started to read. At some point, between a paragraph upon the mechanics of crystal carving and how such techniques may have changed through the ages, I fell asleep.

And such is the way with naps, I awoke a good while later with a crick inside my neck and my waistcoat creased and crumpled.

Holmes was seated opposite. Considerately, he had rescued my book from its tumble; had closed it and set it aside on the table. He had been watching me awhile, I thought, so settled was his pose, his chin tucked into his left palm, propped up.

“Holmes, I am sorry – I fell asleep,” I blurted out. “What time is it? When did you return?”

He smiled slightly. “It is half-past-five. I have been back for half an hour. You dropped your book.” He gestured to it. “It must have been very dull.”

“Not remotely. I was tired.” My head felt heavy, as if a hundred small lead weights suspended from it. “I was reading about--”

“--About skulls, yes, I noticed.” Then: “You rarely mention your brother.”

“No.”

“Why is that, if you do not object to my asking?”

And now, with the question raised, my poor brother's memory was painful once again, as if the grief from his demise had never healed – at least, not fully.

“His life had been so full of promise,” I replied, my voice flat, toneless. “But life did not turn out the way he wanted it. The damned drink,” I added. “It took him in the end. I miss how he was. When we were both boys. I grieve what he could have become but did not.”

We were both very quiet for a moment. Holmes appeared on the verge of a word or a comfort, but in the end he said nothing. 

A minute later, he tried once again. 

“We all have our burdens,” my friend said, at last. His face was reflective, but half turned away.

“Yes. Well, it is all in the past.” 

Holmes and I so rarely spoke of the lives we had lived before we met. Of his own family, I knew nothing, and so presumed them as non-existent as he had mine. The loss of roots, of permanence; a gnaw within me, biting still. 

I would have given anything for his arms around me, then. In comfort or in passion or in a self-conscious friendly gesture, I did not care – I craved only his touch.

Tired, self-defeated, I rose from my chair and reached for my book. I intended to retire to my room for a while. I could not think what to say, so resolved to say nothing.

Holmes's hand stretched out to catch my wrist.

“Watson,” he said.

And he stood, still holding on, 'til we were near to eye-to-eye. As near to it as I may ever be. For I am five inches shorter at the least.

“I am sorry about your brother Harold,” he said.

And then, in a self-conscious, friendly gesture, he drew me to him in embrace.

And all of my nerve endings were on fire. And both my arms were reaching around his back to hold him. And all my thinking was of how warm his body felt, this close to mine. And then – then, it was over, for he released me, let me go.

“Thank you,” I said, and I found myself shocked that I had managed to retain all my powers of speech.

He said nothing, but reached down for my book. He held it out as an offering.

“Thank you.”

A smile; a small flicker. “You are welcome.”

I was about to turn, to leave again, when: “Holmes,” I said – for it had slipped from my mind – “what of the case?”

“Oh, that,” said he. “It is resolved.”

“What!”

He had thrown himself back into his chair. “Why, yes,” he said airily, “it has wrapped up very nicely. And all thanks to Mr. Dawkins and his pendant. Lestrade was grateful. And so he should be.”

“But!”

“Watson,” said my friend, “what is the matter? You are gawking like a fish.”

The calming effect from the hug had quite vanished. I was aching to know all the detail – of Dawkins, the skull, and of poor Mrs. Barker.

“Holmes,” I said, “if you don't tell me all that occurred this very minute --”

Holmes chuckled to himself.

“Well then, my dear fellow, so I shall.”

And he began to tell the tale.


	9. Wormhole & Epilogue

Sherlock Holmes lit his pipe while I all but hopped in impatience. He leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, closed his eyes and began.

“You worked out, Watson, I hope, at least, the significance of Dawkins' pendant?”

“I am afraid that I did not, Holmes.”

“Dear me. Well, as I had mentioned, it is a curious thing to wear about one's neck. Then I happened to recall having seen something of the sort only a few months ago, in an illustrated article on hypnotism.”

“Hypnotism!”

“Yes. I queried Dawkins about this, just to gauge his reaction. The fellow became most enthusiastic. He confirmed that he was practised in the art and had, in fact, held tutorial classes as a means of earning a little extra money on the side. He would teach his students of the methods and the words that one might say, and the ways it might be used to cure various phobias and afflictions. The pendant was his favourite tool, to suspend and swing from side to side to hypnotise the patient. He was fond enough of the quartz point to keep it close to him to double as a jewel of adornment.”

I scratched my head. “I have read of some success within the field of hypnotism – but, Holmes, what connection does this have with Talmadge's murder?”

“I am coming to that,” my friend said. “Please be patient. I am a fairly good judge of character, as no doubt you are aware, after all these years of your accompanying me on my cases. Question Dawkins as I might, I could find no chink within his armour. He is nebulous, but well-meaning on the whole. But, Watson, perhaps you might guess the name of one of the students in his class?”

“Mrs. Barker!”

“Oh, Watson, really? No.” Holmes shook his head. “Dawkins mentioned one fellow who was the absolute star of his set. He declared that we had already made his acquaintance. Well, that set my mind to whirring, as I am sure you can imagine. Ha!” My friend slapped one hand to his knee. “So, a new theory was unfolding, and I returned to Mrs. Barker – who, Watson, by the way, was in an absolutely _filthy_ temper when she saw me. The moods of women are so unfathomable. Anyway, I managed to shoehorn my way into the house for another quick round. I enquired after her health, and if she was consulting any practitioner at present. That galvanised her, Watson!

“'Why, Mr. Holmes,' said she, 'however could you know about my vertebrae?'.

“As it turned out, the lady had recently met and fallen to talking with a particular gentleman who promoted himself as some form of a miracle 'healer'. So persuasive was he, and so convinced was Mrs. Barker by his spiel, that she asked him for his assistance with the 'mysterious pain' in her back that her doctors had not found the root cause of. She had booked a series of appointments with this gentleman; the last of which was on the day of the murder.”

I was rapt by this unravelling. “Who was the fellow, Holmes?”

“A cunning man indeed, that's who. He was working with a false identity, for Mrs. Barker had known him only as Dr. Everett Thomas. We, on the other hand, by the lady's exact description, can clarify his true identity as that of Mr. Jacob Stone. Who, as you may recall, was our moustached friend at the Bizarre proclaiming loud to all and sundry of his great 'passion for jasper'. And who, by the way, has made a full and fascinating confession of his dire deeds. 

“The clever fellow, he had thought through his plan very well in advance. As a friend of Eugene Dawkins, he had heard some idle conversation all pertaining to the skull, of how it had entered the possession of the master of Dawkins' cousin, Matilda Barker. As an enthusiast of crystal and of jasper in particular, Stone realised immediately the worth and history of the object – for its previous owner, Talmadge's father, had written of his treasure in a great many collectors' articles in the years before his death. Jacob Stone began to plot. But if he should steal it from Talmadge, the son, how could he get away with it? Talmadge would involve the police, and there would be no way to sell it, nor to make any useful gain by its possession.

“So, then, a way around it. To do away with Talmadge and to appropriate the skull.”

“Wait,” I said. “I am confused. Why, then, did it end up in Dawkins' possession?”

My friend smiled. “This was Stone at his very cleverest. But we are jumping three steps ahead. Let us retrace. Stone, with his existing and considerable talent as a hypnotist, had found a wormhole in Mrs. Barker. On his first visit, he ascertained her susceptibility to hypnosis. Having proven so absorbent, Stone had set the wheels in motion. Placing Mrs. Barker in a remote hypnotic state, he determined information and so placed his next instruction: for Mrs. Barker to lace her master's evening meal with some mild sedative that should not be detected. And then, that night, for her to murder him in his drugged state, and to reset the room as if the killer had absconded through the window, the room itself securely locked. Mrs. Barker, still under the influence of her hypnosis, would then take the skull and pass it to Stone who was waiting outside in a predetermined location. The deal was now done. Jacob Stone removed all traces of the memory of her crime, but fed her a false set of movements for the duration of the evening. The lady returned inside and resumed her normal duties. And so, a short while later, the discovery was made.

“Meanwhile, Stone wrote the note, pretending it from Barker, and packed the skull to deliver it to Dawkins' Curiosity Bizarre. He made no mention of this to Barker in her revised hypnotic state. Perhaps he did not think it of importance. The result of this, of course, was that Mrs. Barker appeared forgetful and defensive and unsure, and so incriminating herself.”

“Holmes, that is horrible,” I said. “But how did Mrs. Barker kill Talmadge?”

“Very probably a kitchen knife. Of course, the lady cannot remember this, and Stone would not have known. A bread knife would well suit the close description of the wounds. So, where then did it all stand? Talmadge was dead. Mrs. Barker was working with her false memories as best she could. Dawkins had the skull. What then for Stone? And here was his cunning. Stone did not wish to be implicated with the skull's ownership if anything should happen to go wrong – for example, if Mrs. Barker remembered fragments of what happened on that night. With no skull in his possession, Stone thought himself clear of firm accusal. Mr. Dawkins was quite unaware of the scale of deceit, by the way, Watson. It appears that Stone was working on a plan that would allow him greater profit from the skull when the dust had settled from the murder. A closer involvement with the 'tour', a greater persuasion over Dawkins in some direction, who's to say?”

“But how on earth did you manage to get Stone to confess?”

“By inferring that Mrs. Barker had remembered certain detail. That he had been seen in the vicinity that night. That his handwriting matched the note. The fellow blustered, and so dug himself a very pretty hole.”

“You tricked him, then,” I said, impressed. “But Holmes, what will happen to Mrs. Barker now? And what of the skull?”

“Stone's confession will exonerate the lady,” my friend replied. “He in turn will face the full front of the law. As for the skull, it remains in Dawkins' keep for the time being. I think perhaps it will end up as an exhibit in the British Museum, if the experts have their way. How about that, my dear fellow? You'll be able to pay visits to 'Bugalugs'.”

Holmes chuckled to himself. I felt my cheeks flame red. But then a greater sense of relief that the case had been concluded, the true criminal apprehended and all now well – except, of course, for the late lamented Jack Talmadge.

“Congratulations, Holmes,” I said. And we looked at each other again. Ten minutes ago, we had been in each other's arms, where anything seemed possible. We had both of us retracted now – a little – into the safety of our shells. “What will you do now?”

“Do now?” said he. “I plan to smoke my pipe. And after that, well, it hardly matters, just as long as I have my trusty friend and chronicler by my side.”

“You will always have that, Holmes,” I said.

**~ * EPILOGUE * ~**

_Almost one year later – March 1886 – A late afternoon  
221B Baker Street, Dr. John Watson's bedroom_

I am awake, and have been for twelve minutes. Twelve minutes to clamber quietly from the bed, to pull the curtains tight against the glooming shadows and to light the bedroom lamp. Holmes is fast asleep still, one bare shoulder turned toward me, a thrust of mussed black hair upon the pillow.

We had made it to this point, at last. This afternoon, this bedroom, in this bed, we had taken from each other what we had wanted for so long. Naked, oh my god, yes, fully naked, both, entwined, until we did not know where one began or the other might yet ever end. I had taken him in my mouth for the first time, had heard his whimper and his begging for release. He had roved me with those fingers of which I had so long obsessed, and he had brought me to my glory and I to his, and now we lay, some hours later, the sheets despoiled, the room a chaos.

He is asleep, I am certain of it, but:

“I love you.” Aloud! That he might hear, and in the knowledge that he would not be alarmed by it. I lean forward and nudge him. “I love you.”

“I heard you the first time, John.”

Holmes twists around to look at me. He is smiling, his eyes are bright and full of tenderness. He releases one arm from the sheets and reaches out for a handful of me. My right hip. He squeezes, experimentally.

“What time is it?” he asks.

“It is almost six o'clock.”

“Six o'clock! And what day?”

We laugh, both, loud and joyously. This momentous, magnificent, glorious day.

I am atop the sheets. I roll over, as close as I can to him. He turns his chin up, accepts a soft kiss. A kiss that will deepen and render us breathless. I know for certain that I shall never tire of this: his kiss, his skin, his touch, his love. 

I rove my hand under and onto his chest. The soft tickle of hair and the strong beat of his heart. I trace down to his stomach, then down to--

His hand clamps to stop me. Shy, his cheeks pink as he blinks up at me.

“I want to touch you,” I tell him.

His eyelids a-flutter _(such coquetry!)_ , he releases my wrist.

“Is this too soon for you?” I ask him, anxious now. I am worried that I am pushing him, too soon, too much, too fast.

He shakes his head. “No... John.” (He is still testing my name. It must feel very strange.) “I want it.” His cheeks redden further. 

There are at least a dozen things that I wish to do to him this minute. Ten of which involve my tongue.

“Five years,” he says then. 

“Yes,” I chuckle. 

“I was diabolically slow.”

I cannot help but agree. “Yes, you were.”

He cuffs me lightly. “You wretch.” His tone is fond. “So were you.”

True enough.

“We got there in the end,” I say. “It could have taken ten.”

We both shudder at the thought of this.

And my hand curls around him, and I hear his soft gasp, feel the jolt of his hips as my thumb circles and traces. He is perfect. He is everything. He is the one.

And the tiny jasper skull that sits atop my bedside table watches this in mute approval. _At last_ , it must be thinking to itself. _At long, long last._

 

\- END -


End file.
